Mastered By Love (20 page)

held her, with lips and tongue bound her ever more tightly to the increasingly explicit exchange.

 

Drew her ever more powerfully along the road to his goal.

 

Minerva knew his direction, felt it—ached for it—with every muscle, with every taut nerve, yet while most of her mind was deliriously following him, wantonly abandoned to his desire and hers, a small part remained lucid, detached, shrieking that this was more than dangerous, more than disastrous—that this was calamity about to strike.

 

It didn’t matter; she couldn’t break away. Her mind was overwhelmed, seduced in every way.

 

He, his kiss, was all power and passion, intertwined, entwined, inseparable.

 

The taste of him, of that senses-seducing combination, overrode all good sense, devastatingly easily. The edged desire in his kiss, dangerous and uncompromising, lured her on. He devoured, seized, claimed—and she kissed him back, wanting more, inviting more; his hands on her body, hard and possessive, set a fire burning within her she knew he could quench.

 

She needed to feel it, that fire, that life, needed to burn in its flames.

 

She knew that, craved it, even though she knew that with him, that fire would sear, scorch, and ultimately scar.

 

Yet the fact that he wanted her, and she knew enough to know that his want was as honest and real as hers, completely overset, overcame, overturned her carefully constructed defenses. His need, his raw hunger, was the most powerful weapon he could wield against her—as if he’d needed more.

 

She knew she was a fool for permitting the kiss to rage—although how she might have stopped him, stopped them, she had no clue. Yet even knowing how witless it was to so wantonly accept every potent caress, and mindless—abandoned to all good sense—yearn for more, she couldn’t
stop herself from seizing this, this moment, with both hands, and wringing from it all she could. Clinging to him, savoring every nuance, every evocative, provocative sweep of his tongue, of his bold fingers, seizing as much as she dared, surrendering whatever he asked. Taking from him, from the moment, as much as she possibly could.

 

It wasn’t going to happen again.

 

It was he who broke the kiss, he who lifted his lips from hers. They were both breathing rapidly. After several breaths, her senses returned enough to inform her how heated, how pliant, how weak she’d become.

 

How helpless in his arms.

 

He glanced left, then right. Then he swore.

 

Grated, his voice a deep rumble, “Not here.”

 

Her wits returned in a rush, and she realized what he meant. Felt panic rise as she looked where he had, and realized she owed her escape to the heavy dew that had left the lush grass sodden.

 

If not for that…

 

She quashed a telltale shuddery shiver as he stepped back.

 

Royce felt it—sensed it in his marrow—but clamped down hard on his inevitable reaction. The grass was too damned wet, and the trees all had rough, deeply etched bark, but quite aside from such logistical difficulties, ones he could yet have overcome, that part of him ruled by his more primitive self was insisting, dictatorially, that the first time he sank into his chatelaine she should be sprawled naked beneath him in his ducal bed—the massive four-poster in his room.

 

His mind could, and did, supply any number of pertinent benefits, and after his proven-to-be-unnecessary abstinence of the past weeks, he wasn’t in any mood to stint himself.

 

Stepping back, he waited until she was steady on her feet, then towed her to her horse and lifted her to her saddle.

 

Blinking in surprise, Minerva desperately tried to reorder her senses and her wits. While he untied Sword’s reins and swung up to the gray’s back, she slid her boots into her stir
rups, reclaimed her reins.

 

With just a look that said very clearly, “Follow me,” he turned Sword and led the way down. Luckily, they had to go slowly down the hill; once they reached the flat and the horses stretched into a gallop, she’d recovered enough to cope.

 

Nevertheless, she was amazed she made it back to the castle without a stumble. By the time the stables rose before them, her mind had cleared, and her wits had reassembled. Her lips were still swollen, and her body still warm, and if she thought too much, remembered too much, she would blush, but she knew what she had to do.

 

They clattered into the stable yard and he fluidly dismounted. By the time she’d halted Rangonel and freed her feet from her stirrups, he was by her side; she surrendered to the inevitable and let him lift her down.

 

And discovered that, if she wasn’t tensing, fighting to suppress her reaction, then the sensation of his hands gripping her waist, that instant of being completely in his power as he lifted her, held more delight than trauma.

 

She reminded herself that when it came to him, she no longer had anything to hide. Yet when he grasped her hand, engulfing it in his, she would have tugged it back—except he tightened his hold, threw her a look, and proceeded to hold her beside him as, with a curt nod to Milbourne, he stalked out of the yard.

 

Deciding that having a tug-of-war over her hand with His Grace of Wolverstone in his own stable yard, watched over by various of his and her staff, wasn’t an endeavor she was likely to gain anything from, she held her tongue, and strove to keep up with his strides.

 

She had to pick her time, her moment. Her battleground.

 

He led her to the house via the west courtyard, but instead of taking his usual route to the front hall and the main stairs, he turned the other way; she realized he was making for the west turret stairs, a rarely used lesser staircase from which he could reach the gallery, not far from his rooms.

 

Until he’d headed that way, she hadn’t been sure what he intended, but given his preference for the minor stairs…he was taking her to his rooms.

 

She chose the small hall at the foot of the turret stairs to make her stand. There were no servants about, no one else about to see, let alone interrupt. When he reached for the newel post, she halted. Held steady when he tried to draw her forward. He looked around, met her gaze—saw her determination. Arched one black brow.

 

“What you have in mind isn’t going to happen.” She made the statement clearly, evenly. Not a challenge, but a statement of fact. She wanted to draw her hand from his, to lose the sensation of his long, strong fingers locked about hers, but knew better than to trigger his reaction. Instead, she met his gaze with steadfast resolution. “You are not even going to kiss me again.”

 

His eyes narrowed; turning to face her, he opened his mouth—

 

“No. You will not. You might lust after me, but that, as we both know, is merely a reaction to being forced to name your bride. It will last for all of a day or two, and then what? It’s possible that the only reason your eye has fixed on me is that I’m one of the few ladies in the house not related to you. But I’m not going to tumble into your bed just because you’ve decided it suits you. I’m your chatelaine, not your lover, not your mistress.” She drew in a breath, held his dark gaze. “So we’re going to pretend, going to behave, as if what just happened on Lord’s Seat…didn’t.”

 

That was the only way she could think of to survive, heart intact, to get through this time as his chatelaine, fulfill her vows to his parents, and then leave Wolverstone and start a new life.

 

Somewhere.

 

Somewhere a very long way from him, so she’d never have to meet him again, not even set eyes on him. Because after what had just happened on Lord’s Seat, she was going to regret not letting matters take their course, to regret not
letting him take her to his bed.

 

And that regret would last forever.

 

Royce watched her denial form on her lips—lips he’d just kissed, possessed, and now knew beyond question were his. He heard her words, could even make sense of them, but the reactions they called forth left him inwardly reeling. As if she’d picked up a broadsword and clouted him over the head.

 

She couldn’t be serious—yet he could see she was.

 

He’d stopped thinking rationally the instant he’d possessed her lips, the instant he’d swept into her mouth and tasted her. Claimed her. He’d spent the ride home anticipating claiming her in a more absolute, biblical way—and now she was refusing.

 

More, she was insisting that their incendiary kiss should be ignored, as if she hadn’t welcomed him, kissed him back, and clung.

 

Worse, she’d accused him of seducing her out of lust—that he would take her to his bed with no feeling whatever, that she was merely a convenient female body to him…inwardly he frowned. He felt offended, yet…

 

He was a Varisey, until now in this sphere archetypically so—she had every reason to believe any female would do.

 

Except no other would. He knew that to his bones.

 

He held her gaze. “You want me as much as I want you.”

 

She lifted her chin. “Perhaps. But remember the reason I haven’t accepted any offers—of any sort—from any gentlemen? Because they didn’t offer anything I wanted.” She looked directly into his eyes. “In this case, anything I want
enough.
”

 

Her last word echoed in the stairwell, filling the silence that fell between them.

 

A clear, unequivocal challenge.

 

One that called to him on a level he couldn’t deny, but he could see from her eyes, her calmly resolute mien, that she was unaware she’d issued it.

 

The marcher lord within him purred in anticipation. In
wardly he smiled; outwardly he maintained his impassive expression.

 

Desire, lust, and need still ran rampant through his veins, but he reined the unruly, tempestuous emotions in. He wanted her, and was determined to have her. He’d gone to the lookout already committed to doing whatever it took to convince her to be his—in all the relevant spheres, of which this was one. His first test, apparently, was to convince her that she wanted him
enough
—to wit, a great deal more than she knew.

 

The prospect of exerting himself over a woman felt alien, but he shook aside the niggle.

 

He’d been intending to offer her the dukedom, his duchess’s coronet; he toyed with the idea of asking her if that would prove
enough
. But the challenge she’d issued had been based on the physical, not the material; he would answer her on the same plane. Time enough once she was gracing his bed to inform her of the permanent position he intended her to fill.

 

His gaze lowered to her hand, still resting in his. He needed to let her go—for now.

 

Forcing his fingers to ease, he let her hand, her fingers, slide from his grasp. Saw, because he was watching intently, her release the breath she’d been holding. She didn’t step away; she lowered her arm, but otherwise remained still. Watching him.

 

Wise; his more primitive side wasn’t happy about letting her go, and was just waiting for any excuse to override her wishes and the counsel of his wiser self.

 

Too conscious of that primitive self prowling just beneath his skin, he forced himself to turn away, to start up the stairs. He spoke without turning around. “I’ll see you in the study in half an hour to discuss the mill.”

 

 

That afternoon, Royce’s last traitor lay naked on his back in Royce’s younger sister’s bed.

 

Equally naked, Susannah lolled on her stomach beside
him. “I sent off that note with the post last evening—it should reach town later today.”

 

“Good.” Lifting an arm, he trailed his fingers over the quite delectable curve of her derriere. “It’ll be amusing to see if dear Helen avails herself of your kind invitation.”

 

“Poor Royce, forced by the grandes dames to choose a bride—the least I can do is arrange a little diversion.”

 

“With luck, the beautiful countess will be here by Sunday.”

 

“Hmm.” Susannah looked pensive. “I really can’t see him rushing to announce his betrothal, not given it was forced on him. Once she arrives, he might put it off indefinitely.”

 

“Or even change his mind. Have you really no idea who he’s chosen?”

 

“No. No one does. Even Minerva has no clue, which, as you might expect, is bothering her greatly.”

 

“Can’t you wheedle it out of him? You’re his favorite sister, after all.”

 

Susannah snorted. “This is Royce
Varisey
we’re talking about. He might look on me more kindly than he does Margaret and Aurelia—and really, who wouldn’t?—but ‘wheedling’ anything out of him would literally be the equivalent of getting blood from a stone.”

 

“Ah, well—it seems we’ll have to wait with everyone else to hear. A week or so…not that long.”

 

Susannah sat up. “Wait a minute. He said the week’s delay was to get the lady’s agreement.” She turned to him. “If we knew which lady he contacted…”

 

It was his turn to snort derisively. “Not even
I
would suggest you might induce Retford to tell you who his new master is corresponding with.”

 

Susannah slapped his chest with the back of her hand. “Not me, silly—Minerva. I bet she’s already thought of it.” She grinned, then slid sinuously, sensuously, into his arms. “I’ll ask her…later.”

 

He pulled her over him, licked her lips, and slid his hand between her thighs. “Indeed. Later.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Eight

 

 

 

 

R
oyce walked into the drawing room that evening, and
calmly surveyed the remaining company. His sisters had stayed, although their husbands had departed; all three had, apparently, decided to indulge themselves with a few weeks’ break, taking advantage of the, for them, freer, less restrictive structure of his essentially bachelor household.

 

All three were indulging in affairs under his roof—Aurelia and Susannah with two of his cousins, Margaret with the husband of one of her “friends,” who was helpfully otherwise engaged with another of his cousins.